


Sleepless

by Forestwater



Series: Forestfuckery [3]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, david is desperate and weak, he's also kinda a top sometimes, listen it might be ooc but it's just smut what do you want from me, this is one of those times, you want gwenvid fuckin on a desk? you got gwenvid fuckin on a desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:18:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: I kinda love the idea that she has way more energy than him in regards to sex but he can’t say no to her, so maybe the campers start noticing him a lot more tired, maybe a little more irritable, maybe a little shakier on his feet. And every morning he swears he’ll put his foot down and demand they set a more reasonable schedule, and every day she gets more and more restless until by the evening activity she’s practically vibrating and staring at him like she’s going to devour him, and his resistance might hold up for about two minutes after they get into the cabin but he basically already knew he’d lost since she first gave him that sly gorgeous smile hours ago and they’ve both been on edge since.Because he can’t help it. Gwen gets what she wants and will continue to even if it kills him (and he thinks it might, someday).(Originally published Sept. 2017)





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> RIP anyone subscribed to me, especially if you've read these all before on tumblr. As with the others in this series so far, these were all written over the summer of 2017 and published shortly after, but never made it to Ao3.

“Listen, Gwen, I — I feel like we should talk about —” He hasn’t even gotten the words out before her lips are at his neck, and she isn’t starting out slow, not that she’s ever done anything slow when it comes to this, to them, to the trails of fire she ignites with her fingertips and the chill that chases her breath. He’s pretty sure there’s no such thing as slow; whatever they do is always too much, too fast, too overwhelming, he’s read about kisses that were slow and lazy and tender but he’s never experienced one, because even her gentlest touch hits him like a taser, even her smile makes him have to look away and cross his legs because it’s trouble, she’s trouble, he’s  _in_  trouble.

“Hmm?” she hums, her lips against his throat so that the vibration shoots straight down his neck into his lower belly, and he has to force himself to remember what he wanted to say but it’s hard when he can barely force himself to remain standing, when all he wants to do is melt into a boneless desperate pile of nerve endings and let her play with him however she wants.

But he needs to rest. He’s going to collapse if he doesn’t. “It’s ju-usst-t …” Her tongue flicks against the joint where his jaw meets his neck, her teeth graze so gently along his earlobe, and he stumbles back against the wall — stumbles, is shoved, he’s not entirely sure what’s her body and what’s his anymore, his brain seems to have disconnected from the rest of him and it’s hard to tell what’s going on beyond the humiliatingly base, sensation building upon sensation until he’s nothing  _but_. She hasn’t quite broken him just yet, hasn’t tugged on his nerves until they pull him to pieces, but she can and she will and they both know it. But still, he tries. “J-just think maybe we … we ssshouohhh …” Her hips shift forward, a slow torturous drag against him and then a sharp snap away, and his body tries to follow her but then she’s got her leg between his and her thigh, hip, stomach, chest is pressing him back, back against the wall and then into it almost hard enough to hurt.

“Should?” she coaxes, repeating the roll of her hips and nipping at his bottom lip at the same time, and she’s grinning because she knows  _exactly_  what she’s doing, she’s toying with him and it’s not fair, it’s not nice, if she was kinder she would stop but he’s also pretty sure he’d cry if she  _did_  — “What should we do?”

Right. Yes. As much as he wants this, he needs to rest. He needs a break.

“I’m ha-haaaving trouble —” David swallows, trying with what remains of his fraying willpower to ignore her fingernails gently walking up his sides, “I’m — counselor — n-need to be — I’m not —” He knows he’s not making sense, he doesn’t know what he’s saying but he can tell it’s nonsense, can read it in the huff of laughter against his throat, in the way she digs her nails in and grinds against him harder, she’s trying to make him lose the last shreds of his mind and god she’s  _good at it_  —

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs into his skin, tracing his ribs with tapping ticklish strokes that make him writhe against her — a movement that, once he’s started, has unintended consequences that feel way way way too good to stop.

“You’re killing me!” he finally gasps, the words coming out in a desperate rush. “I can’t … I-I  _can’t —”_

“Oh.” She freezes, then draws back a few inches, and he’d think it was a power play but her expression is honestly surprised, her eyebrows furrowing. “Do you want me not to … ?“ 

_No no god no please no_. "I just … I’m exhausted,” he admits, blushing and avoiding her gaze because it sounds so pathetic, he’s too weak to survive her but he’s too weak to resist and so he’s reduced to begging her to please have mercy. “I want … but I can’t … I’m not very good at my job anymore.” And that sends a hot flush of shame through him that doesn’t kill his arousal, he’s pretty sure an axe murderer wouldn’t kill his arousal, not when Gwen’s still so close he can feel her body heat, but it makes him just a little sick and that mixes with the warmth pooling between his legs and leaves him confused and quavery and suddenly blinking away tears before they can spill hot and humiliating down his cheeks.

“Oh, fuck. Shit, David.” And she’s leaning in again but not to kiss him, not to torture him, her thumb swiping against his cheekbone because he must’ve cried after all, and isn’t that the most pathetic thing? “I didn’t — fuck, goddamn it I thought you  _wanted —”_

“I  _do!”_  It comes out way too shaky, way too wet, a sob more than words and he wants to shove her away, preserve whatever meager shreds of dignity he might still possess, but he can’t, he loves the warm soft pressure of her body against his and even if she loses all respect for him he can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around her, hips jerking forward involuntarily as she staggers into him. “I want it — I want you  _so bad_ but I’m … tired.” And it sounds so lame, so ridiculous he fully expects her to laugh at him.

She doesn’t. “Okay,” she says, her voice softer than he’s used to, the voice she had when she asked if the bonfire was really it, the voice she had when she told him she wanted to kiss him. “Okay, okay, it’s fine.” She kisses the corner of his mouth, and it’s supposed to be sweet but it makes him twitch and shudder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I guess I got carried away.” Resting her head on his shoulder, she returns his hug, and he knows she’s trying to be friendly and that she’s not trying to drive him crazy but god she doesn’t understand what she  _does_  to him. “You’re too cute when you’re horny,” she says. “I couldn’t help myself.” Her voice is light and teasing, but David feels her words heavy in his stomach because he knows  _exactly_  what she means. 

He can’t help himself, either.

Instead of replying he buries his face in her hair and breathes her in, even though that won’t help — is the opposite of helping, in fact, only makes things worse in terms of how desperately he wants to fuck her or die, makes him in fact whimper because she smells so wonderful, vaguely fruity but also like campfire smoke and sweat and something he can’t identify but leaves him winded. 

Gwen pulls back a bit, running a hand through his hair with a small smile that isn’t pity but something similar, something soft and tender and so unlike her usual ferocity. “I think you probably … uh, shouldn’t be left like  _this.”_ Her eyes flick down to where he presses against her, and she’s right because he’s hard, so hard it hurts, too hard to turn back. “So how about I take care of you, you don’t have to do anything. And then I’ll let you rest, okay?” She traces a finger down his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s a testament to how keyed up he is or just a side effect of  _her_  that even that makes him shiver. “I think I owe you." 

And that sounds good, so good his fingers dig into her skin before he can stop himself, but he can’t, can’t do that to her. "But what — uh, what about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Girls don’t get blue balls, and I can always deal with it later.” She’s smiling at him but he doesn’t like that answer, and he hates himself because it’s that he’s grown addicted to her moans and sighs and shudders and the thought of going to bed without them, even of knowing she’ll go back to her room and make all those beautiful noises and movements without him there to soak them up is enough to make him want to cry again.

“But you …” Maybe it’s just because he’s stretched so thin he’s lost all ability for rational thought, or maybe he’s just as bad and desperate and selfish as he’d always feared before they got together, when he’d look away and try not to think about her like that because he wanted to be a better person but maybe he isn’t, because he’s yanking at her shirt and fumbling at her shorts and shoving them down her hips, his fingers following the curve of her mound on muscle memory until they find where she’s wet and burning. He slides two fingers into her, not as gentle as he should be but his hands are shaking and he couldn’t be gentle if there was a gun to his head. And gosh it’s somehow better every time he touches her, it’s like the opposite of anything he’s ever experienced because things are supposed to get  _less_  overwhelming with time and repetition but she gets worse, he’s terrified that someday he won’t be able to hold her hand without dying. He pumps his fingers in and out, so slowly it feels like torture but it’s worth it for how she groans low and hoarse in the back of her throat and leans her head against his, for every breath that breaks ragged and staccato against his lips, for the way she flutters and trembles around him. “You … I want you to. Um, you know.” She opens her eyes and trains them on his, already growing hazy and confused with what he’s doing, and it takes everything he has not to collapse right there at the pulse that wracks him in response to that heavy-lidded expression. She licks her lips, and before he can feel embarrassed he blurts out, “I want you to come, please.”

He’s afraid she’ll roll her eyes at him, but instead she tightens her grip. “Fuck, David,” she breathes, and the way she says that word, the way she says his  _name_ , that’s almost as good as her muscles clenching around his fingers. “I should …  _god_  I should say no to that.” But he thinks she’s breaking, because her breathing is growing faster as his fingers speed up, twitching inside her to put extra pressure on the spot that makes her buck against him. And  _wow_ , he can’t blame her for anything she’s done, because if he looks and feels and sounds even half as good as she does when her self-control starts slipping … “I can’t … I’ll try to be gentle,” she gasps, but her hips snap forward in such an un-gentle way that he has to chuckle. He’s not tired, not anymore, he’s thrumming and giddy and maybe this is Gwen’s secret, maybe it’s the high of being in control that lets her tear him apart night after night until he can barely move, but suddenly the thought of returning the favor is giving him enough energy to run around Lake Lilac. “A-and we’ll just …” Her exhale is sharp and needy, and he feels it all the way to his toes, “just do it once. Then we’ll sleep, okay?”

David hums in agreement, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to stick to that resolution, not when she’s already so weak and he feels terrible, feels like he tricked her into reversing their roles but he didn’t mean to, he really didn’t. It’s just that this is so, so good he might not be able to stop. And tomorrow morning seems suddenly, impossibly far away.

He slides out of her, and his own disappointment is drowned by the whine she fails to bite back. Unable to keep from grinning, a goofy smile that he can’t restrain even biting his lips, he takes her wrist and drags her into his room, barely letting the door close before he’s pressing her against it, sliding his hands under her shirt and kissing her hard, fast, sloppy and frantic.

And she melts into him with a moan and no, he’s not going to be able to give this up. Not the goosebumps that pebble her skin as his hands skate up her sides, not her shallow panting high-pitched gasps, not the way that, even though she wants him back inside her so badly she’s squirming, she won’t just grab his hand. She must know that he’d do it if she made him, that this control is tenuous and temporary at best — or maybe she  _doesn’t_  know that, not in this state, and that thought makes his knees quake until he has to brace himself against the door with one hand — but for whatever reason she won’t, she’ll wait for him, and he can draw this out forever if he wants to, tease her with ticklish nips and licks and touches until she’s as destroyed as he always ends up. If he wants to, he can pin her down and bring her right to the edge, then pull away at the last second and watch her thrash and swear and beg until she’s dropped to a lower level of arousal and he can start the whole thing again. He can see how many times he gets away with that before she snaps.

He can. And he will.

But not now.

Now he pushes her shirt up over her head, needing to close his eyes for a second at the realization that she’s not wearing a bra (and the rush of heat that accompanies it), then helps her as she yanks at her shorts and underwear, nearly falling over with the need to get naked and he’s never seen her like this, he’s seen her gasp and he’s seen her writhe and he’s seen her come but it’s always been controlled, a measured reaction tempered by the desire to make  _him_  fall apart and the need to keep herself slightly detached in order to keep the upper hand — and he now knows intimately what that feels like, the quiet methodical voice in the back of his head cataloging every one of her reactions and what draws them out; it’s a little smug, a little awed, and incredibly turned on, but he clings to it to keep from losing his mind completely. The fact that she’s willing,  _able_ , to abandon any attempt at being the one in charge makes him twitch hard, and he just wants to fuck her against the wall, or sprawl out on the floor and pull her down on top of him, or bend her over his desk. And he  _can_ , he can do any of those things and he’s dizzy with the knowledge, with the choices, he wants all of them at once.

As he steps out of his clothes, struggling a bit because Gwen’s helping and her movements are clumsy and trembling and that makes everything more difficult but also  _so much better_ , he has to take a moment to stop, to put his hands on her hips and just stare. Her lips are swollen, her skin flushed and damp, her nipples hard even though he hasn’t touched them, she’s breathing like the room doesn’t have enough air and she’s wrecked, more worse for the wear than he’s ever seen her.

David is instantly addicted to that look.

“On the desk,” he orders, his mouth going dry at the immediate way she obeys him, too turned on to talk back, and her smirk seems to have vacated to another planet, he hasn’t seen her go so long without that amused little wry smile and while he misses it, the almost nervous, wide-eyed hungry anticipation that replaces it is unbelievably, achingly good. He steps forward, putting his hands under her thighs and scooting her forward until she gasps and clutches at him — at  _him_ , not the desk, and that touching bit of faith is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen — and when she’s perched on the edge of the desk, her fingers digging into his shoulders and her legs wrapped around his hips, he takes a second to trail his fingers down her body, circling her nipples and smiling as she arches up into the touch. Pausing with one hand just behind the knee of her left leg, he brings the other to his mouth and swipes at his thumb with his tongue before returning his palm to rest warm and heavy against her ribs, brushing the damp pad of his thumb over one nipple.

“Fffucking  _god_ , David, that’s …” She presses her forehead against his chest, her fingernails leaving bruising half-moons in his shoulders and back that make him suck in a pained breath and shudder because there will absolutely be marks in the morning. His thumb stutters slightly before he recovers, moving a little faster and a little rougher and drawing a choked whine from her that sears into his skin. “Please, shit please David  _please_  I want … I want …”

She doesn’t know what she wants. That’s his favorite part of all of this: she doesn’t know what she wants and she doesn’t have the breath to ask for it even if she did. She’s helpless, completely dependent, and he’s been there a thousand times and if God is good will be there a thousand times again but right now he’s on the other side and it’s a really nice place to be. 

“Okay,” he says lightly, that distant part of his brain slightly amazed that he can keep himself sounding that calm, that uninterested. He takes the hand from her breast and tilts her chin up, leans in until their lips are brushing. “Tell me how this feels.” He captures Gwen’s lower lip between his teeth and flicks his tongue against it, sucks it into his mouth and at the same time brings his hand down to mirror the one under her thigh, holding her hips firm as he pushes, not gently, into her.

She jerks away from the kiss with a cry, dropping her hands from his shoulders to brace herself on the desk behind her, her head falling back and her eyes squeezing shut. “Hmnnnh,  _ghaah_ , Da-haavid —”

Christ, he’s never heard anything so perfect in his life. He snaps his hips forward, because he’s not sure she could stand to go slow (and he’s  _really_  not sure he can), finding a rhythm that jerks the breath from her lungs with each movement and taking care to make sure she isn’t in danger of sliding off the desk. “Tell …” He needs a moment, because the way her chest is moving is extremely distracting, “tell me how it feels.”

“God,” she whines, curling forward and clinging to him again, like she can’t decide what to do with herself. She hooks one arm around his neck, lifting herself up and closer so his body brushes against hers, panting wetly against his chest. “Shit, it’s so ssso fu-cking good, you’re —  _hnnngh —”_  Giving up, she presses her mouth to his collarbone with a whimper.

He’d normally be a little embarrassed at how her praise makes him shudder, but he can’t right now, not when Gwen sounds that  _ruined_. Not when her entire body is a series of tiny uncontrolled tremors, her fingers shaking, her leg muscles twitching, her cunt tightening, and he has to close his eyes to keep them from rolling back.

He might faint.

She moans, hoarse and broken and vibrating over his skin, and he desperately hopes that means she’s close because he is. Every movement, every sound, everything about what she’s doing to him — because even if he’s supposedly the one in control she’s  _still_ going to destroy him, she  can’t help it — rakes through him like sparks under his skin, and even with that quiet logical voice telling him to wait, not until she’s come, not just yet, he’s still pretty damn new at this whole thing and that voice is way too easily drowned out by the weak dizzying groans against his neck, the blood rushing in his ears.

She’s so — she’s just so  _perfect_ , so fucking good everything she’s doing everything they’re doing everything about this is ss-sooohh god yes shitshitshit god he’s — he’s ah- _hahh_  — almost —

_“Fuck,_  Gwen,” and he doesn’t mean to say that, he always tries so hard to keep his language clean but what else is he supposed to say what else makes sense except fuck, fuck fuck fuck  _fuck_  — She murmurs his name and it’s almost a sob, her body tightens spasmodically and she’s done and oh thank god thank god because so is he. His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering under the pressure giving way, the burst of pleasure so sharp it’s like a sun winked to life behind his eyelids, and thank goodness for whatever shred of common sense keeps him from screaming, from  _wailing_ , because he barely swallows it back, pressing his mouth into her shoulder, breathing harshly through his nose and keeping his eyes screwed shut as he holds on, clings to his beautiful amazing Gwen for dear life.

After a few heat-thick moments he lifts his head. In his glowing, buzzing state it feels unbelievably heavy, full of cotton or something else muffling his thoughts trying to reach his brain. She pulls back too, giving him a tired crooked smile.

“Christ, you go through that  _every_  time?” She shakes her head, nuzzling against his neck with a sigh. “I can’t believe it took you this long to fall apart.”

David laughs breathlessly, petting her hair with one hand. “This wasn’t bad,” he reminds her. “You normally put me through a lot worse before the, you know." 

She groans. "I can’t even imagine.”

“You won’t have to,” he says with a grin, one that widens when she shivers. “Not tonight, though." 

"Sleep?” And when she pulls away, looking up at him, there’s something questioning in her eyes, like he’s somehow still in charge, and that suddenly makes him want nothing less than sleep.

But she looks like she’s going to pass out, so he just smiles and cheerfully agrees, “Sleep.”

There’s always tomorrow.


End file.
